AVA

Two days later, JOSH was in Central America and ALEX was all moved in. I'd watched the movers carry a giant flat-screen TV and boxes ofvarying sizes into the house next door, and Alex's Aston Martin was now adaily sight.

Since stewing over my situation wouldn't do me much good, I decided tomake lemonade out of my lemons.

The gallery closed on Tuesdays during the summer and I didn't have anyshoots scheduled, so I spent the afternoon baking my signature red velvetcookies.

 I'd just finished packaging them in a cute little basket when I heard theunmistakable roar of Alex's car pulling in the driveway, followed by a doorslam.

Shit. Okay, I was ready. I was.

I wiped my sweaty palms against the sides of my thighs. I shouldn't benervous about bringing the man cookies, for Pete's sake. Alex had sat at ourThanksgiving table every year for the past eight years, and for all his moneyand good looks, he was human. An intimidating one, but a humannonetheless.

 Plus, he was supposed to look after me, and he couldn't do that if he bitmy head off, could he?

With that reassurance in mind, I grabbed the basket, my keys, and myphone and made my way to his house. Thank God Jules was at her lawinternship. If I had to hear her talk about how hot Alex was one more time,I'd scream.

 Part of me thought she did it to annoy me, but another part worried she was actually interested in him. My best friend hooking up with my brother'sbest friend would open up a can of worms I had no interest in dealing with.

I rang the doorbell, trying to still my rampaging heart while I waited forAlex to answer. I wanted to chuck the basket on the front step and run home,but that was the coward's way out, and I was no coward. Most of the time,anyway.

 A minute passed.

I rang the doorbell again.

 Finally, I heard the faint sound of footsteps, which grew louder until thedoor swung open and I found myself face-to-face with Alex. He'd taken offhis jacket, but otherwise, he still wore his work outfit—white Thomas Pinkshirt, Armani pants and shoes, blue Brioni tie.

His eyes roved over my hair (tossed up into a bun), my face (hot as sun scorched sand for no discernible reason), and my clothes (my favorite tankand shorts set) before settling on the basket. His expression remainedunreadable the entire time. 

They're for you." I shoved the basket toward him. "They're cookies," Iadded unnecessarily, because duh, he had eyes and could see for himself thatthey were cookies. "It's a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift."

 "A welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift," he repeated.

"Yep. Since you're...new. To the neighborhood." I sounded like an idiot."I know you don't want to be here any more than I want you here—" Crap,that came out wrong. "But since we are neighbors, we should call a truce."

 Alex arched an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware a truce was necessary. We'renot in a war." 

"No, but—" I blew out a frustrated breath. He had to make this difficult."I'm trying to be nice, okay? We're stuck with each other for the next year,so I want to make our lives easier. Just take the damn cookies. You can eatthem, throw them out, feed them to your  pet snake Nagini, whatever."

His mouth twitched. "Did you just compare me to Voldemort?"

 "What? No!" Maybe. "I used the snake as an example. You don't seemlike the type who'd have a furry pet."

"You're right on that account. But I don't have a snake, either." He tookthe basket off my hands. "Thank you."

I blinked. Blinked again. Did Alex Volkov thank me? I'd expected him totake the cookies and shut the door in my face. He'd never thanked me foranything in my life.

Except maybe that one time I passed him the mashed potatoes at dinner,but I'd been drunk, so my recollection was hazy.

 I was still frozen in shock when he added, "Do you want to come in?"

This was a dream. It had to be. Because the chances of Alex inviting meinside his house in real life were lower than me solving a quadratic equationin my head

I pinched myself. Ow. Okay, not a dream. Just an incredibly surrealencounter.

I wondered if aliens had abducted the real Alex on his way home andreplaced him with a nicer, more civil imposter.

 "Sure," I managed, because hell, I was curious. I'd never been insideAlex's home before, and I was curious to see what he'd done with Josh'splace.

He'd moved in two days ago, so I expected to see stray boxes lying about,but everything was so polished and put together it looked like he'd beenliving here for years. A sleek gray couch and eighty-inch flat-screen TVdominated the living room, accented with a low, white lacquered coffee table,industrial-chic lamps, and Josh's abstract painting. I glimpsed an espressomachine in the kitchen and a glass-topped table with white-cushioned chairsin the dining room, but otherwise, there wasn't much furniture to speak of. Itwas a drastic difference from Josh's messy but cozy collection of randombooks, sports equipment, and items he'd collected from his travels. 

"You're a minimalist, huh?" I examined a strange metal sculpture thatlooked like an exploding brain but probably cost more than my monthly rent."I don't see a point in collecting items I don't use and don't enjoy." Alexplaced the cookies on the coffee table and walked to the bar cart in the corner."Drink?"

 "No, thanks." I sat on the couch unsure of what to do or say.He poured himself a glass of whiskey and sat opposite me, but it wasn'tfar enough. I caught a whiff of his cologne—something woodsy andexpensive-smelling, with a hint of spice. It was so delicious I wanted to burymy face in his neck, but I didn't think he'd take too kindly to that.

"Relax," he said dryly. "I don't bite."

 "I'm relaxed."

"Your knuckles are white."

 I glanced down and realized I was clutching the edges of the couch sotightly my knuckles were, indeed, white.

"I like what you've done with the place." I winced. Talk about a clichéline. "No photos though." In fact, I didn't see any personal effects—nothingthat showed I was in an actual home and not a model showroom. 

"Why would I need photos?"

I couldn't tell if he was joking or not. Probably not. Alex didn't joke,except for that one blip in his car a few days ago.

 "For the memories," I said, like I was explaining a simple concept to atoddler. "To remember people and events?" 

"I don't need photos for that. The memories are here." Alex tapped theside of his forehead. 

"Everyone's memories fade. Photos don't." At least, not digital ones.

 "Not mine." He set his empty glass on the coffee table, his eyes dark. "Ihave a superior memory."

My snort slipped out before I could stop it. "Someone has a high opinionof himself."

That earned me a shadow of a smirk. "I'm not bragging. I havehyperthymesia, or HSAM. Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory. Lookit up."

I paused. That, I hadn't expected. "You have a photographic memory?"

 "No, they're different. People with photographic memory recall detailsfrom a scene they've observed for a short time. People with HSAMremember almost everything about their life. Every conversation, everydetail, every emotion." Alex's jade eyes morphed into emeralds, dark andhaunted. "Whether or not they want to."

"Josh never mentioned this." Not once, not a hint, and they'd been friendsfor close to a decade.

"Josh doesn't tell you everything."

 I'd never heard of hyperthymesia. It sounded fantastical, like somethingout of a science fiction movie, but I heard the truth in Alex's voice. Whatwould it be like to remember everything?

My heart rate picked up. 

It would be wonderful. And terrible. Because while there were memoriesI wanted to keep close to my heart, as vivid as if they were happening rightbefore my eyes, there were others I'd rather let fade into oblivion. I couldn'timagine not having the safety net of knowing horrible events wouldeventually recede until they were only faint whispers from the past. Thenagain, my memories were so twisted I remembered nothing before the age of nine, when the most horrible events of my life had occurred.

"What's it like?" I whispered.

 How ironic the two of us were sitting here: me, the girl who rememberedalmost nothing, and Alex, the man who remembered everything.Alex leaned toward me, and it was all I could do not to back away. Hewas too close, too overwhelming, too much.

"It's like watching a movie of your life play out before your eyes," hesaid quietly. "Sometimes it's a drama. Sometimes it's horror."

 The air pulsed with tension. I was sweating so hard my top stuck to myskin. "No comedy or romance?" I tried to joke, but the question came out sobreathless it sounded like a come-on.

Alex's eyes flared. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn honked. A beadof sweat trickled between my breasts, and I saw his gaze dip to it brieflybefore a humorless smile touched his lips. "Go home, Ava. Stay out oftrouble."

 It took me a minute to gather my wits and peel myself off the couch.Once I did, I all but fled, my heart pounding and knees shaking. Everyencounter with Alex, no matter how small, left me on edge. 

I was nervous, yes, and a bit terrified.

 But I'd also never felt more alive.

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